Jonas Kirk Mysteries: The Collection

By Dick Snyder

Jonas Kirk emerged from the sudden death of his parents as a wealthy wanderer, traveling widely but settling into his home town, Woodland Park, MN. Immune to the movers and shakers of his community, he remained footloose until he became interested in murder. Studying forensic evidence at Hamline University, he courted the professional confidence of Lt. Chester Devlin and gradually became an informal advisor on homicide investigations. Trusted? Maybe not.

A vacation in the Rockies introduces Kirk to a new standard of maturity, lures him into new efforts to become a constructive part of the community and offers him a rationale for imposing his own sense of justice. When law and jury fail, Kirk develops his own strategies, ones that arouse Devlins suspicions. But he cant complain much. Kirk is good for his career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524683849

Dick Snyder

Dick Snyder b. Taft, 1937. St. Mary’s Grammar School. TUHS '55. Taft College '57. Completed B.S. University of Colorado (1961) and PhD. History (1966). Retired as Emeritus Professor, University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, 2001. Returned to California in 2003. He has published a biography of William S. Culbertson, edited a volume on John F. Kennedy, published two e-books: Jim Richard: Life of Firsts (2009); Family's Passage (2011). He broadened his topics in Boomerang: Short Stories in a Fictional Life (2015). He then became interested in writing mystery and published a collection of short stories: The Jonas Kirk Mysteries (2017). Subsequently, he published three detective novellas: Bingo (2018), Pumpkin Fest (2019), Marquee Murders (2019) He then explored the dark side of university collegiality. Why She Wept (2021) features faculty enmity, academic rivalries, transgender revelations and ultimately a death, for which three persons each believe themselves guilty. His latest work, FOR A WOMAN, merges race, entertainment and the mob in a love story shared by a Black woman, SHONTEL and two White men, Trey Thaxson and Bobby Banfield. High school classmates they find themselves at mid-life recreating careers for all three of them, turning their lives inside-out. PICTURES of various characters in FOR A WOMAN can be found at the web site: Jonaskirk.com

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© 2017 Dick Snyder. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/15/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8385-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8384-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903939

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Click

Night Dreams

The Acres

Witches Walk

Deadlocked

For Your Penance

Christmas Cards

Dead Man Biking

The Rubber Ducky Car Wash

Smoke It

The Host

Chaos In The Crapper

Little Black Dress

Damn Small Town

Valentine’s Kiss

Swirling Fish

Acknowledgements

All writers know that at the end of the day, however hard they have worked to combine words, style, plot and narrative, they owe significant debts to those whom they have trusted to review and react to their creative efforts. That other pair of eyes, that distinctive view of structure, that good will to offer positive criticism is all necessary for any creative work to find it’s best form.

My thanks go to Paul Magee who has been reading and reviewing this work from its very inception. He identified in me a penchant for this character, Jonas Kirk, and provided me with a substantial measurement of confidence that I could see this through. His encouragement, always earned, drove some story lines, limited others and kept my eye on character development and expanded complexity.

Daisy Galleto gave me early, compelling advice on the development of Jonas Kirk.

Bill Pemberton has provided regular reviews of individual stories, and I deeply appreciate his commitment to the entire project.

Beverly Stafford has read, reviewed and commented on several of these stories.

Jym Thrailkill offered me early encouragement that made my creative efforts flow more freely.

Maurine Ratekin has read almost every story, encouraging my forays into unfamiliar form and sometimes odd storylines.

Lee Smith, M.D., provided me with timely information on body function, bleeding and symptoms of mortal injury, though no diagnosis by Jonas Kirk can be placed at Lee’s doorstep.

Michael Long, Taft Independent, provided me with an opportunity to try out some of these stories on a local audience.

Jimmy Gibbs did a brilliant job in creating cover graphics that introduce each of the stories.

Linda Snyder has provided me with frequent observations, close proof-reading and pithy remarks about characters that often sharpened my view of storyline and plot.

There are rules for the mystery/detective genre I am told, but what could I do in the face of the impulses that Jonas Kirk brought to his life…his work…his place in Woodland Park? I had to write it as it unfolded. I hope you find an occasional surprise, some bit of wonder and a satisfied sigh after reading his stories. He is a flawed individual, uncertain of his place in the community, or whether he wants one. His first attempts to settle find him using/working with a local detective, Lieutenant Chester Devlin. Together, they try to find justice for homicide victims, in one way or another. Sometimes, they just can’t.

All these stories have appeared as singular novellas, available online. Search: Jonas Kirk Mysteries.

All have also been edited, expanded and further developed for this publication.

As always, these characters and their stories are of my own creation and I take sole, full responsibility if they fail to satisfy you, the reader.

Dick Snyder

2017

Introduction

Jonas Kirk, born and raised in Woodland Park, Minnesota, sorted through his childhood without a significant disturbance. He coasted through adolescence untouched with tumult, emerged into young adulthood confident, preppy and educated as a wealthy young man should be. The sudden death of his parents, a car crash, left him a fortune but endowed him with a problem. What was he to do with his life, his money?

He needed to find purpose. He held no particular concern about the public community in which he lived. His political connections were thin, and he maintained few personal connections to his hard-working Norwegian/German shopkeepers. His lifestyle kept him at arms-length from local police or sportsmen. Social emptiness ground on him, and he looked for ways to remedy it. Impulse travel, which had once kept him immune to community, now took him to the Rockies, immersed him in nature and its unforgiving rules of life and death. Transformed in his core beliefs about justice, he returned to Woodland Park with a newly energized strategy for becoming a part of his hometown.

Crime intrigued him, but not just any crime. Homicide…that act which could not be withdrawn…offended his sense of community as did no other. He set out to solve murder with the cooperation of local police, particularly, Lieutenant Chester Devlin. He did it subtly, unseen, without complaint, without publicity. He consorted with witches, fell in love, used community gossip, joined the country club, renewed interest in his high school, studied forensic science, and used his natural curiosity to bring justice to Woodland Park. Not all arrests resulted in conviction. Not all crimes were reportable. Not all confessions could truly satisfy the priest. But when institutions failed, then what?

He became the deadweight that united Miss Justice and Mr. Scales. A terrible burden, but one that he came to manage in front of his friends and partners. In plain sight. Such a friendly fellow.

CLICK.B.W.jpg

Click

Cloudy dusk. A light mist moistened sidewalks, decorating them with an array of sole prints embossed in smudged foliage. I waited. The sky finally blackened, shadows returning in lamplight arrays along the avenues. Traffic sorted itself, ducked into garages and put good folk back into their warm houses. I ventured out to my evening gig.

I wish I could say that I carried some social purpose in my nighttime cruising. Sorry about that. I’m somewhere in that murky age, no longer an adolescent, not quite, perhaps not nearly, an adult. I defer serious thoughts about where life might take me, seeking what most of my peers looked for…a good time. I knew where the party was and now all I had to do was slip in, a visitor with a smile and a gentle temperament to match. I found the target, a smoky gathering in the one section of town that lined its street with three-story Victorian homes.

Only a few of these local period statements remained single family structures. Of those, none impressed more than Emily Horner’s, a classic display of rounded towers, decorative carvings, and recessed window placements. Its silhouette pressed upon passersby, cornices lifting one’s eyes to the sky to wonder whether there were still old spirits inside those tiny rooms, narrow staircases and dimly lit passages. A fortress.

I cruised by, carefully eyeing life within, judging shadows. Gathered heads, clustered bodies, muted sounds all suggested that the party had begun to find its tone, dissolving old connections, memorizing new names. Mostly, the figures promised a loosely linked gathering of what I liked to think of as cold druggies, ones who could control their recreational use of cocaine, pot and a little alcohol to celebrate the night. My kind of people.

Parked my BMW a block away, slipped on my light windbreaker and listened. No noise, good sign. I strolled down the street until I stood across from the Horner’s, encouraged to find that the party hadn’t spilled into the yard. I walked up to a deep, encircling porch filled with plastic plantings and carefully spaced chairs, its walls covered with white chipped paint and old tattered draperies. Little chunks of mortar created thin fall lines below its windows.

A sheltered wrap-around, it edged three sides of the home, providing a pathway for daytime conversation, a place to sashay for couples in an earlier age and maybe a hiding place for tonight’s romantic rituals. For me, it was simply a tunnel to cross. No need to knock on the door, nor ring a bell. I quietly walked in and absorbed some warmth, fresh looks and quizzical glances. New Face. Who? Buyer or seller? User or abuser?

No one ran. I glanced around, taking in the ratio of guys to women, liking my chances. Lit up my little bud-wrap to show that I belonged and began to circulate. The chatter bounced off people I didn’t know, described escapes I had not heard and gossiped about lovers with whom I had never shared a private moment. Typical party talk. Just let it pass thru my head.

I circulated for about an hour, feeling buoyant, nibbling from a display tray of cheeses, meats, breads and veggies. Nothing extravagant, but plenty to crunch, and they satisfied my grinders. An array of other treats decorated three different tables, and I could see that it was worthwhile coming in off the street. There were tokes for all, special forms of pot blended into cookies and candies, some of them cached in various containers to provide both access and immunity from theft. Mushrooms filled a sample dish, strait lines of coke appeared, then disappeared with a sniff and a sigh.

A special jug of vodka sat on one counter in a frosted white bottle sporting a label which read NYET. I poured some into my glass of fresh pineapple juice, sipped it, liked it. Faces moved among the goodies, sampling, sometimes depositing new supplies. No one seemed particularly possessive. These sudden gatherings circulated around Woodland Park every month or so, dodging the cops, offending no one and pleasing a rotating group of singles who stayed in the loop.

Fact is, Emily Horner had been hosting her share of them on an impromptu basis for about a year. She didn’t supply much in the way of consumables, but she seemed to have plenty of space in that three-story monument. She ignored what people lay on the sharing table, so long as it wasn’t any of her stuff, and maybe she kept a few leftovers for her own use. Didn’t matter.

In the middle of a large formal dining room I sidled by a row of women working on their transition from day to nighttime moods. A puff of pot, a snort of coke, a laugh and then a sudden silence as they paused a moment to try on their new persona. They clearly fit Woodland Park’s demographic: white, middle-class, self-assured and full of daily chatter. I sampled their scents, felt the heat, noted their looks and admired their gentle engagements.

I fielded a couple of glances and began to find some direction, moving slowly toward a loosely connected blonde whose smile flashed from time to time, occasionally lingering on me. She melted away, surfaced again, then wound her way into a small clique of brunettes, two guys and a girl. I filed her placement away for later use.

As the evening warmed, I looked for Emily, wanting to thank her for hosting such a peaceful, easy gathering, one more sensuous than trashy. No luck in the kitchen, and I found the living room empty. Sitting room held conversation, but still no Emily, and I wandered out to the porch to see if I could find her and say hello.

Nothing there, but the blonde showed up again, and I didn’t really want to let her get too far out of my sight. Heard the fresh splashing of poured drinks, the rattle of ice and a little giggle underlining a loud, short laugh. Reminded me that I needed some liquid…Emily would appear somewhere soon enough and I’d catch up then. Drained my third pineapple/vodka then felt an impulse.

Be prepared, I thought, and looked around to find that haven of privacy, the bathroom, where bladders could find quick release and long-lasting relief. A friendly face cued me, Up the stairs and to the right, and so I ascended, rapped a cautionary knock…no answer…knocked again…and opened the door.

The thing about walking into someone else’s bathroom is that you never know what you’re going to find. Could be a haven for a lingering kiss…maybe a hideout for someone’s crying jag or even a basin to simply wash hands. In my case, I just wanted a seat to lift, space to stand and soap and water to finish. Every bathroom in this house had nice facilities, I was sure, but when I opened that door I knew that no other room in the whole house could match what I saw…Emily Horner, dead. I grew up a lot in that moment.

Chapter Two

Stunned. I didn’t want to stare, but I couldn’t quit looking. My heart raced even as I stepped back for a moment trying to take in the whole helter-skelter picture. My head swept left, then right, caressing the tiny room and snapping images as fast as the eye could blink. Click: her body lying across the toilet. Click: her knees wedged against one wall, shoulders against the other. Click: web impression alongside her right cheekbone. Click: blood pool below her head. Click: a close look…toilet bowl water clear. Click: a metal Don Quixote astride his steed, protecting the toilet tank lid. Click: blood splatter through the wash basin and up the wall. Click: her tight, long pants lying at her knees, bunched between steep, stiletto heels.

I backed away, glancing left and right, stifling the impulse to just run. The room, empty of everything except the awkward body of a very nice lady, now hosted a drama of its own, and although Emily held center stage, she was unavailable for encores. I closed the door, click.

My name is Jonas Kirk. Although my weight spreads nicely over more than six feet of height, I spend very little time in a gym. Without bulk, I pretend that long and sinewy is still attractive and slender testifies to my near-daily outdoor cardio work. I bought into early warnings about tanning beds. Cancer anyone? For the same reason, I don’t smoke, maybe an occasional rolled bit of pot but nothing sold by Phillip Morris or its accomplices. My blue eyes gaze out from under brown, tightly trimmed hair and give an edge to my face, but my nose and chin soften it. Some people think I’m good looking.

My parents died in a car crash, and I used their estate to finish my undergraduate degree at Brown, then taking an MBA at Wharton. Looking for a safe, lively diversion, I sampled courses in criminology and forensic medicine at Hamline here in the Twin Cities. That led to my current hobby: homicide. I’m particularly interested in death that sends mixed messages. An accident…regrettable. Murder? Well, I didn’t like that so much. Tonight, I learned that I disliked it even more. Emily Horner, a friend no longer, now a victim of something…accident, homicide?

I had recently become a bit of a pest to the Woodland Park police, trying hard, too hard probably, to create a semi-professional relationship. I showed up unannounced at a few crime scenes, offered little comments to on-site officers about my training and interest, even tried to fund all the costs for the Policeman’s Ball. No luck. Not even close. Always outside…looking for a way in, and wondering what any of this might mean to the long life I intended to live.

Now, here I was, the first person on the scene of a sudden death… accidental? I’d seen enough TV and movies to know that the poor sucker who reported Emily’s passing to the police would spend hours explaining how he had simply opened a door, and why he had not snuffed a life. I wasn’t interested in having that conversation with anyone, let alone the earnest guys in blue uniforms who would be gathering here sometime in the next hour. Slow walk. Slow talk. Slow dawn.

When the stoners downstairs heard the news, they would likely panic, shed their stash and engineer clever escapes that would leave the police fuming, fussing…furious. Hell, if what I saw were not an accident, the swirl below almost surely contained a murderer, and bluecoats would travel a confused trip through a cloud of smoke and rolling red eyes trying to connect any clues that floated out of those muddled minds. Anyone caught up in conversation with the cops would be around for quite a while, not a good way to get through the night. Still, right now, no one down there knew a thing about a dead person up here. Well, maybe one person did.

But I knew. Emily Horner could no longer host a party, or anything else, and I didn’t want to be the new center of attention. I walked quietly back down the stairs, mingled briefly with the singles, took two casual sips from a beer, quietly said goodbye to a few faces, ignored others, and started slipping away.

I caught the eye of that blonde. I knew her, in a party sense, which is to say that I had met her here, and I liked what I saw. I didn’t know her in a personal sense, wanted to know her, if you know what I mean, but now I had to just disappear. Sad way to end the evening, but she had no idea of what I had seen, and I hoped that she wouldn’t take my absence personally.

I moved slowly through the now crowded kitchen toward the side door that opened into the porch, quietly sliding between round butts attached to long legs, saying nothing, nodding to imaginary conversations. Enticing? Yep. Most of the ladies of the line gently pressed back. Some ignored me. One reached behind with her left hand, waited for me to arrive and gently touched me. I gave her a good look, then smiled appreciatively and moved on. Two others just swatted their hands at my hips and pelvis before I could move beyond them, and I took it like a man.

Once out of the house, I knew the right thing to do…go home…and then the next morning, as word of bloody death got around, I could act surprised, curiously mature about the news, but surprised none the less. Just start the car, pull away, drive a block then turn on my lights…the smart way to disappear. But I didn’t feel like being out of the loop. I liked sampling drama, and for me the compelling scene that I didn’t want to miss had to do with the police.

How long would it take? How soon would the next guy or gal decide that a pressurized bladder needed emptying? As they took that easy climb up the stairs, walked five steps down the hall, turned right, then pulled open the white door to the tiny bathroom, they would have no idea of what they were about to see. Couldn’t blame that vision on drugs.

Would I hear screams or would I have to wait for the quiet arrival of serious minded officers? They would think that Emily Horner had tripped, fallen and simply hit her head on the wash basin. Why had she fallen? Too much to drink? Too many hits? A trip, as her pants caught on her 4" heels? Was that it?

As I said, I’m not in the death solving business, but I’d like to be. My work at Hamline whetted my interest in crime analysis, and with nothing much to do each week, I liked to think about distinctions between accidents and homicide. Emily Horner’s death deserved a lot of thought.

Still trying to sort out the clicks in my mind, I walked down the street, moved my black BMW a little further away from the house and parked it in an unlighted space. It wasn’t going to attract any attention and I wasn’t either. I watched the house from the side and rear view mirrors, quietly sitting slouched in my seat with no extra motion, working to let the adrenaline subside.

Chapter Three

The black-and-white turned the corner, no lights, no siren, but plenty of speed and a sense of purpose and authority. A second car followed almost immediately. The two cruisers pulled up to the house, double-parked, set their blue/red lights flashing and four cops popped out onto the street. They moved their feet in quick step, ascended the concrete steps, crossed the porch and walked through the door. The stoners had surely shed their drugs, but to my surprise, had not fled. Indeed, their voices, open and welcoming, greeted the blue dudes warmly. Quickly shifting moods fired by smoke and powder had become fixed on the idea that this could be something like a game of Clue. Cops on scene. Something REAL had happened and death would be the hit of the party. No one wanted to miss that show.

I sat in my car and I knew what the blue coats were doing. They focused on a close examination of the sorry condition of the upstairs bathroom and the person within it. They confiscated anything that looked like pot or coke, asking for owners, hearing none. Next, they completed a name-by-name interview with people now in various stages of induced frivolity triggered by the now unclaimed drugs that graced the snack bar. They took a digital pic of each person, as much to document those faded and puffy eyes as to get a record of everyone at the party. One by one, cleared and bleary, the players left amidst orders not to leave town. Was it a dream?

What could I have added? I walked into something I knew nothing about, and I walked out just as ignorant but with chilling images in my mind. Nothing the police could see differed from my own glance. I could have spent hours waiting to tell them what they already knew, or I could spend the rest of the night, on my own time and at my own pace, trying to sort through the picture album in my mind to see if it meant anything to me. Hmmm, make a mental movie.

Was I safe? I had recognized only a few of the wide-eyed wonders standing around, and my exit had been so timely that I doubted anyone knew that I had left. Most might not remember that I had arrived. Unlikely that anyone could name me. Free and clear, I sat more calmly in the dark and waited for the street to settle.

By 1:00 a.m., the party was over and the house empty, except for Emily Horner. I could see the body language of detectives-to-be talking to one another out front. Shakes of the head, a twist of the neck, a hand slap at the head, all conveyed Emily’s likely shock at injury. One cop probably did local theatre. He simulated a syringe pushing a needle into a vein, spread his arms wide to show drugs everywhere, staggered a bit to convey a tipsy hostess, posed an unbalanced posture, then projected the fall, blow and death from cracked skull and loss of blood. Awkward.

They had it all figured out and telling it to themselves in pantomime seemed to make them all the more certain. I expected some crime scene tape to go up next, but not so. No interest in arresting potheads, certain Horner’s death was accidental, they shook their heads, chattered between smokes and edged closer to their patrol cars. Once the coroner arrived and removed the body, they quietly just drove away. Within another half hour, the house was dark. No hostess, no party, no cops. I guess it was lights out for Emily Horner.

I waited another hour, got out of my car well before any false dawn, and walked up to the house. Tried the door…locked, but loose. I pushed a little. It gave way and I was in…what? Was this a murder scene, a setting for a tragic accident, or just another after-party silence waiting for new faces to fill the walls with sound? I went upstairs with my mind rearranging my pictures.

I had real doubts about an accident, and it sure as hell was not a natural death. I also had real concerns about how close I had been to the murder itself. Emily’s blood still dripped when I peeked in. Her body, pale and limp, belonged to the grave, but her skin occasionally quivered. I guess, at that moment, I was the last person to see her alive, and the first person to see her dead.

The layout of the bathroom confused me a bit. If the accident story were to be true, then she had to have fallen after using the toilet. Was I supposed to believe that she died because she fractured her skull with what was essentially a bump on the basin, then bled to death. Could one really bleed to death from a ripped scalp? Maybe. Lots of blood, and I knew from my own history of cuts and bruises that a little slash could produce a puddle of red in a hurry. Still, the toilet bowl held only clear water…I got close enough to take a look there…no blood splatter at all. Yet she had died before she could dislodge herself?

What else did my mind’s camera focus on? There was a very fine web grained pattern crisscrossing her right cheek. What did that mean? There were other images in my mind that I had to sort out, the spool not yet fully unwound.

If it had been murder, then a killer circulated around me while I was downstairs. I knew a few in the crowd, none well. I decided to spend some time thinking, reading the next morning’s newspaper reports, remembering what my picture roll held. Maybe I could figure out what happened when a lady went to sit and someone took severe objection to it.

I took one more look at the bathroom, fixed it in my mind, then left and quietly drove home. I slept long and hard, awoke, erased a bad dream about cops and handcuffs and went back to sleep. This time, I awakened knowing that I had survived a close brush with a murderer who left a bloody scene interpreted by cops as accidental death. I needed to know more, and that meant that I had to have access to the police, and that was a problem. I knew only one guy on the force well enough to even broach a conversation, and while he and I had talked briefly once, we never shared comments about anything as specific as an actual case.

This business of getting close, but not too close, to the police had challenged me for the past year. I wanted to be in their loop when it came to homicide, but at the same time, I really didn’t want them to be in mine. I skirted the law from time to time, nothing serious, always middle-class offenses…speeding, pot, maybe a small, late night gambling loss at cards or dice…but my impulse was to get along, not be sent away. Now, on the edge of a real crime…a witness in fact…I had to somehow find a way to explain my views.

Chapter Four

I really needed a source inside the department, someone who would let me into the loop without locking me up in the cells. I had been nosing around a little for several months, asking about guys on the job who might want some informal tips. Two or three names popped up, one of them Sergeant Chester Devlin, a grumpy, potbellied, Raggedy Andy kind of cop. He said little, assessed a crime scene intensely but didn’t seem to like me. Not the best I could hope for, but he was something, and we had worked a mock case together at Hamline when he came in to audit a class on criminal complaint and evidence collection. He looked at me a lot, but never really got close. He seemed to have some ambition. How much?

Today I needed him. I pulled out my cell and called. Headquarters put me through, and I reacquainted Devlin with who I was, and why I was calling. The thing is, I said, I don’t believe that Emily Horner died from an accident.

Now, this was a critical moment. If Devlin didn’t like the sound of my voice or my meddling, I had nowhere to go, but if he just listened, I thought that maybe I could persuade him that I could solve a murder and earn him a promotion. Still, he had to be willing, and I knew that he held great doubts about amateur sleuths…all cops did. How professional could I be?

Devlin took the call because he felt sorry for this ugly duckling, Jonas Kirk. He remembered the accident that killed both his parents, hell, Devlin had been the first local cop to show up. A mess…really a mess. He hated covering car accidents anyway, but this was brutal. A t-bone collision…splattered bodies, metal and car seats strewn across an intersection… a runaway drunk. Must have had a three-block running start, then through a light and full-on collision with the Kirk’s Volvo. He wasn’t close to the family at all, yet he felt a kind of protective responsibility toward the surviving son who had to absorb this news, and learn to manage his life on his own. He heard the name from time to time…Jason Kirk. Spent a lot of time circulating through local pot parties and he liked alcohol for sure, but at least he avoided getting himself into any real criminal activity. Had to be tough on him…would be on anybody. Had to admire the way he worked through all of it, including his occasional audits of courses on forensic homicide at Hamline University. Liked working one case with him in a class exercise. So, yeah, he knew who was calling…he just wasn’t sure that he wanted to get involved with the kid. Well, he was a young man…but young or old, he was still pretty much of a smart-ass and still floating around the edge of the drug scene.

He was not amused. Emily Horner not an accident victim. Might as well let Kirk know what he thought of that.

You are full of shit, you know.

I tried to respond with reason and humility. I know you see it that way Sergeant…can’t say I blame you, but I think it might help the case if you let me share my thoughts…might help your career if I’m right.

And you are who?

Jonas Kirk. You may remember…we audited a class together at Hamline…shared a mock case. You liked my help there. I think I can give you some evidentiary guidance here.

Eviden…what? Cut the crap…you know something?

No, Sergeant, but I have thoughts that could lead to evidence of murder.

You’re wasting my time, here, Kyle, Kurt…whatever the name. We’ve pretty much sorted things out at the Horner house.

The name is Kirk, Sergeant, Jonas Kirk. Hey, what if I took you to lunch and in between bites and snipes, I’ll share my thoughts with you. If you’re not interested, you walk away full of food, and I leave knowing I gave it my best shot. My treat.

Why would I want to do that…share conversation on a death investigation…with you…a stranger.

I don’t talk and I don’t stalk. Over at Hamline when we shared a case assignment collecting evidence from a public restroom, I did the close work around the toilet while you assessed the sinks. A favor to you I would think. Eh? I like being helpful. Keeps me amused, and in this case, I think I can help you solve a murder, avoid filing a flawed accident report.

Guess he had given the youngster enough crap for now. Really didn’t think he could come up with anything useful to the investigation, but what the hell…he was trying to help. And he hit the right button when he recalled that evidence around the toilet…he smiled. Better Kirk ran around trying to help cops than spending time with druggies and slipping off into a corner somewhere. Maybe he cared about the kid’s future.

Were you there? Devlin asked.

Not that I remember, I replied, but I have thoughts.

Not interested. I don’t interrupt the coroner on thoughts. I’m thinking that what you have is curiosity, flights of fun and fancy.

This is easy, Devlin. Either you just close the case as accidental death, or you hear me out and consider whether you could make lieutenant by solving a murder.

Pause.

I may have tickled that little cell of ambition that lay within his heart, and I followed it up, "Promotion, Sergeant, think promotion. I am safe. Check me out at Hamline. Ask around town. Talk to the guys at Ole’s Donut ‘Ole. You have nothing to lose except a little time while I buy you a lunch. Whaddya’ think."

Well, Kirk touched my fancy there. Hard to put aside a chance to advance in the department. Maybe worth a listen…maybe the kid would learn a lesson…maybe I’d make a headline.

He paused, then finally, I am thinking that you are a pain-in-the-ass, Kirk, but I like free food. Better bring some real meat to the menu.

"Two o’clock, meet’cha at Treats to Eat, they have lots of napkins," I said, then hung up.

Devlin heard the click, thought about this conversation with one Jonas Kirk, a face he did vaguely remember from that classroom work over at Hamline. He thought some more…Kirk…young, probably too young to be professional…good looking, likely too taken with himself to assess evidence properly…quick with his words, maybe caught up in spinning fancy stories rather than assessing evidence. Still…in that moot case, he had found the hair around the bottom edge of the toilet pedestal that was key to finding the identity of a killer lurking in the stalls. He smiled a lot, but underneath, well, he seemed to have a brain and liked using it…maybe he could be useful.

I spent the rest of the morning just thinking. Images began to move in my head, and they started to make sense. Murder became more likely, but what about weapon, motive and opportunity? I was having trouble with that, but before I met with Devlin, I had thoughts on all three. At least he was on time. I was hungry.

Chapter Five

So, Devlin began, We may have met after a couple of classes at Hamline, refresh me. He motioned me to talk while he checked the menu. I hoped to be the main dish, and I tried to treat his palate. I began by giving him my most professional look and a thoughtful, cadence explanation…maybe my only chance to connect with him as closely as he connected with his food.

I’m just a guy looking for something to do with my time, I started, Solving crime doesn’t really appeal to me. Homicide, now that’s different, but professionals see guys like me as a scab on a case…not interested. I’m looking to connect with a cop that can use me.

So far, you are right on the mark…scabs.

Devlin commented without looking up from the specials of the day. The waitress arrived. He ordered, Hamburgers, two of them, fries, a malt and coffee now. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow and nodded to the waitress. I looked up, settled on scrambled eggs, wheat toast and returned to the conversation.

Devlin sipped his coffee, just looked at me. I’ve learned a bit about you…a likely nuisance…a little caught up in police work…but more or less harmless…so far.

I said nothing. He went on, Trouble with guys like you is that every time you send us in a new direction, it takes us four times as long to backtrack when we find out you’re a pot full of beans.

I really wanted the food to arrive.

Finally, it did. Before I could fork my eggs, Devlin had a large chunk of his burger deep in his gullet, and now he scrunched four fries into a fresh bite of beef patty, wiping the running catsup off his lips with his napkin. Then he spoke, "Amateurs make mistakes, make headlines, make me…swallow…sick. You any different?"

I think so, Sergeant. What you see is what you get…another pair of eyes, some thoughtful analysis and deference to you, your rank, your department. I’m not interested in publicity. I just want to do something meaningful with my life. Being rich is nice…travelling, clothes, food…but then what? I’m hoping you can help me…help you.

He washed his food down with the chocolate shake he had at the top of his plate, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He seemed to listen to the last of my words, looked at me with the kind of intensity that told me his interest in solving murder might let him tolerate a little bit of my amateur blueprints…at least until he shredded my thoughts into confetti.

O.K., he paused and swiped the grease on the back of his hand onto his pants. What’s your name again?

Kirk, Jonas Kirk.

You live in Woodland Park?

Yep.

You think you know something about Emily Horner’s death?

I do.

Why?

Let me see the pictures taken that night. Then hear me out.

Devlin paused, dragged out an envelope from his coat pocket and opened it up.

I looked through the photos he brought. I counted the faces, nine women…three blondes, two brunettes and four others with various shaved heads, dyed waves of hair and rings protruding from sensitive places. Six guys half-smiled, four of them bearded, all scruffy but clean, none muscled, two especially thin but all healthy. Just a nice group of twenty-somethings looking to transform a cloud of smoke or a line of white powder into a thunderstorm of memories. Some were smiling broadly when the picture clicked. Others were just standing there in shock.

Do you know any of ’em as dealers, I asked.

He paused. I could see that he was having trouble responding to that question. What he wanted from me was the same thing I wanted from him: information.

Finally, he spoke. There are two, he replied without identifying either, but all the goods were on the table. No one was holding anything.

I asked what they had confiscated in the way of drugs, and he described the general collection. No surprises there, mostly pot, some cocaine, a few mushrooms, but no crack, no heroin.

Any reports of stolen drugs?

One guy commented about a ‘small salami’ disappearing.

Now, the casual public might think that a small salami was lunch meat with a special oregano in it. No. It was a six-inch pressed lump candy, laced with pot, easily broken apart as a savory treat. Usually stuffed tightly into a twisted netting it provided convenience and access. Some people called it a blackjack. Whoever complained about losing it had a specialty item with a lot of party fun in it, and until they wanted to share it, the goodies were not for public consumption.

That was it? I asked.

That was it, he replied, Do you still have thoughts?

I do. But I am going to have to ask you to do something for me, for us, and then I believe that I can give you the answers you need, murderer and all.

So now, this was it. He wanted information…wasn’t really providing any, except speculation, and while this great feeding frenzy was damn good to my taste buds, he really didn’t see where the kid was